


Aubade

by Cyhyr



Series: SylvixWeek2020 [6]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Begging, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Interrogation, Kinda?, M/M, Post-Betrayal, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), asking for forgiveness, brief discussions of a past suicide attempt, non-canon items of importance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26674207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyhyr/pseuds/Cyhyr
Summary: A rider approaches from the south, holding no banner and bearing no colors. The scouts say he looks strikingly like the late Master Gautier.Felix doesn't know how he feels about this; not until the rider is in front of him, bound and begging him to hear him out.Written for SylvixWeek2020 Day 6: Second Chances
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: SylvixWeek2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934302
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55





	Aubade

**Author's Note:**

> This really came about because I wanted to write Sylvain tied to a chair. It was *going* to be a torture scene where he gives in and spills kingdom secrets to stop the pain, fitting the second prompt of "confession" but in the end, I couldn't seem to make the Sylvix work.
> 
> So we get emotional whump instead! Enjoy :)

Felix leaned heavily against the wall, watching the weekly war meeting silently. Across the room, the boar stalked back and forth, occasionally snarling out a differing command to what the professor or Seteth laid out. It was a damn miracle in itself that his father had managed to pull that animal from its crazed mutterings in the cathedral’s rubble; nevermind that it was trying to achieve higher thought and process tactics.

He was here to intercept the boar should it decide to charge on their allies. Ingrid, Ashe, and Annette had listened when he told them to get lost after the main phase of the meeting was over. Everyone else had slowly filed out afterward, leaving only Gilbert, Seteth, his father, and the professor. Still, Felix didn’t lax his watch.

He _did,_ however, tug on a chain he wore under his clothes, feeling for the charm that rested below his collarbone. He shut his eyes tight, screwed his face into a scowl, and resisted the influx of bad memories from the past five years.

Back further; to when he first received the charm. Bright smiles and brisk, sunny days; seasons spent fostered in Gautier, on the run from the Margravine at every turn; a childhood promise sealed the only way they knew how, the same way Felix’s cousins sealed their vows before the Goddess just a half-year previous. A parting gift, placed gently around his neck, clasped under his hair—“It’s perfect, Fe”—and followed with assurances that they’ll see each other in a few moons.

Felix had tried to give a gift in return. He could never find anything that compared.

A knocking came through the war room doors . Felix dropped his hand, stood up straight, and turned to the door. Gilbert, the closest, answered; he let the young Fraldarius soldier through. The soldier bowed to the boar, to Rodrigue, and then to Felix himself, before addressing the professor. “Our scouts have sent a report ahead. A lone rider approaches from the south.”

The boar stalked menacingly toward the soldier. “Have the knights meet him and send him to the eternal flames,” it growled.

The professor placed a hand on its shoulder and shook their head. To the soldier, they said, “Does the rider have a banner?”

“No, professor. But,” the soldier looked at Felix—his heart stuttered, _please, no_ —“the scouts mentioned he looked much like the late Master Gautier.”

The room was silent for a breath. Two. Three—

“My order _stands_ ,” the animal snapped. “If the rider comes from the south, it’s Adrestian and an enemy. And if it _is_ Syl—”

“If you finish that sentence, I don’t give a _damn_ that you were once my friend and prince,” Felix snarled back, “I will cut you down where you stand.”

“Is that a threat to your King?”

“Enough, both of you,” Rodrigue said, stepping in the way.

“It’s a _promise_ ,” Felix said, leaning around his father’s shoulder.

“ _Felix_ , that’s enough!”

“If it is Sylvain,” the professor continued, still managing to hold the raging animal back with their bare hand on its shoulder, “we will see this through carefully. Felix, we all would love to have Sylvain back and well; but keep your expectations realistic.”

Felix nodded. “Understood.”

“Gilbert, please take Ingrid and Lorenz out with the knights to meet this rider.”

“Of course, professor.” The old man hesitated, then asked, “If it is the young Gautier?”

“Bring him home, of course.”

Gilbert turned to look at Felix, sighed heavily, and then clarified: “Professor, what do you want us to do should it come to light that Sylvain had… defected?”

“How dare—!”

“Felix, leave the room please,” the professor said. “Dimitri as well. Neither of you can make sound decisions right now.”

“Professor.”

“Son, listen to them; listen to yourself.” Rodrigue turned him bodily to the door. “Please see His Highness back to the cathedral, Felix. We will send for you when we know more.”

Felix snarled, snatched his shoulder away from his father’s overbearing hand, and stomped out of the room. He wasn’t going to the cathedral, not under anyone’s request. Ten minutes later found him in the training grounds, furiously working through sword forms he’d mastered long ago.

* * *

They sent Mercedes to collect him hours later. Whether the professor just knew that she was one of the few people who could deliver bad news without risking personal injury, or that she happened to be available, Felix couldn’t be sure. He didn’t ask; didn’t say anything, really, as he followed a step or two behind Mercedes through the monastery.

It didn’t deter her, though. “I’ll take you through a back way Annie and I found,” she said. “Getting to the Knight’s Hall may take a little longer, but you don’t want anyone else seeing you like this; do you, Felix?”

Like _what_? Angry? Silent? Stressed?

“I’ll admit, hearing what happened from Ingrid was hard. Seeing him...” She briefly looked back over her shoulder at him. Her smile was poisoned with sadness— _grief_ , he corrected. “You haven’t heard, of course. Would you like me to fill you in? Or would you rather wait for the professor to tell you?”

“I don’t want your pity,” he finally snarled.

“Felix, _no_ , of course not.” Mercedes stopped and reached out to him; he flinched away and she stopped, folded her hands in front of herself instead. “He was my friend— _our friend_ —too. Please, let me help you carry your grief.”

He shook his head. “No, thank you. I’ll make the rest of the way myself.” He maneuvered by her, careful of their shoulders, and stalked through the monastery with one goal in mind.

Find out what the _fuck_ happened.

* * *

There was a small crowd outside the Knight’s Hall when he arrived, held back by Alois and Shamir. When the latter caught eyes with him, she called out his name and waved him forward; the crowd turned as one to face and follow him as he walked through them. They let him pass, and he stepped into the short hallway. His boots echoed on the stone tiles and along the arches.

Raised voices—his father, Gilbert, that _beast_ —and he ceased to walk and sped into a jog. He turned into the Hall and to his left was a scene of his nightmares: the boar, frothing at the mouth to kill _again_.

“You turned against your own people,” it said, snapping at some figure on the other side of the room, out of Felix’s sight. “Upon the Saints’ names, you will not live to regret such a transgression!”

Felix closed the distance, drew his sword, and placed the blade at the beast’s neck. He could now see—and confirm, _fuck, but why?_ —that the man receiving the threats, still dressed in riding leathers and a southern-style tunic, was sat in a chair with his wrists restrained behind his back. He’d dropped his jaw at seeing Felix, mouthed his name, even.

“Felix, son, put your sword down,” Rodrigue said.

“Listen to your father, _Felix_ ,” the boar snarled.

“I told you earlier I didn’t care what our relationship once was,” Felix growled back. “If you touch him, I will cut you down.”

“You value this traitor more than your own liege?”

“ _Move, Boar_.”

“Dimitri,” the professor called. They gently pushed Felix’s blade away; Felix let them, sheathed it, and took a few steps back. So what if that put him closer to—

“Call for me if your discussion grows too heated,” Rodrigue said, putting a hand on Felix’s shoulder. He shrugged it off, but nodded. “We’ll be just outside. And we… I promise, we won’t interrupt.”

And then the professor led the boar and their knights out of the room. Leaving just Felix…

And Sylvain. Sylvain, who hadn’t returned to Faerghus after Garreg Mach fell. It was assumed he’d perished in the assault, and Felix grieved accordingly; on the one-year anniversary of what he considered Sylvain’s death, he’d held a dagger to his own throat and cried for the courage to be with him in death. Unable to do it, Felix threw himself into the war and tried to move on. But everything seemed to remind him of Sylvain during the subsequent four years.

Horses and lances. Women. Sunny days. The biting cold of Faerghus’s winter.

In the past few moons, he’d come close to moving on. And now.

“Felix?”

He turned and got caught in those warm brown eyes; a smile that softened Sylvain’s jaw and brow; the light sigh that left parted, pale lips.

“You’re looking good,” he continued. “I’d heard reports that you were one of the Kingdom generals and I hoped—”

“So you did defect.”

Sylvain shut his mouth with a click of his teeth and looked away. He shifted in his chair, rubbed his wrists together; how long had he been here? Did it matter anymore, now that Felix was interrogating a traitor instead of cautiously gathering information?

“Hear me out,” he pleaded.

“Why?” Felix snapped. “Why should I listen to anything you have to say?”

“Edelgard had a point, okay! That our society is too reliant on Crests and the nobility system. Once I had the chance to really think about it, I realized that her Fódlan—the one she claimed to want to build—is one I wanted to live in. I went south. I enlisted. I sought out Bernadetta and worked with the Imperial Army. I led troops against Western Faerghus.”

“You’re not pleading a good case for yourself,” Felix interrupted.

“I fucked up, Felix. I chose wrong. Maybe Edelgard’s ultimate goal is still ideal but—”

“I can’t listen to this,” Felix groaned. He turned away, took a few steps; put his hand over his eyes to try and force the tears from slipping out.

“ _Please!_ Felix, let me make this right,” Sylvain cried out, straining forward against his restraints. Felix stopped by a support pillar, sniffed, tipped his head back; Sylvain took the opportunity he was given to continue. “Her methods are _wrong_ , Felix. I firmly believe she doesn’t care if there is a populace left to rule over as long as there’s no one opposing her. And then there’s the creeps.”

“Creeps?”

“I don’t know,” Sylvain shook his head. “They’re all mages, I think? But Edelgard’s inner circle—Bernadetta told me about it—they’re working with them. And Edelgard _hates_ it, but she’s doing it anyway. And even to Bernadetta and them, she won’t explain herself or her plans! Just says to trust her; but doesn’t give that trust in return. I can’t—couldn’t—abide by that. Told her it to her face, even. That if she wanted me to trust her command, to at least trust us with her plans.

“She, ah, didn’t like that. Obviously. I fled Enbarr and rode north as fast as I could. Stopped at the Varley manor to try and get the Lance of Ruin, but they must have received a messenger hawk before me,” he looked sheepish, at his lap, “so, sorry about losing that. But I’m here, and I’m willing to do anything to—”

“I didn’t want to believe it,” Felix muttered, cutting him off. The fire in the hearth cracked and scattered sparks up the chimney; the only sound in the Hall for a moment.

Sylvain tilted his head to the side. “Believe what?”

“That it was you.” Felix stalked toward Sylvain, one, two, three steps; crossed his arms. “I _mourned_ you,” he grit. He leaned forward, braced one arm on Sylvain’s shoulder and snarled, “I spent the last five years learning how to live without you.”

“Oh, Felix…”

“I had my low points—the _lowest_ , even,” he admitted, and when Sylvain’s eyes widened and began to water, he waited for the satisfaction of bringing Sylvain down with him to hit. It curdled in his chest instead. He looked away, straightened up. “But I managed. I even started to move on. And now you’re _here_. Riding back into my life like you didn’t…”

Sylvain stretched out his leg, placed his foot on top of Felix’s; the only contact he could initiate right now. “Like I didn’t...?” he prompted, after a few breaths.

Felix pulled away, turned to face the fire. Put his hand over his face and screwed his eyes shut because _this man_ affected him like no one else ever had or ever could. He tugged at the chain under his shirt, rolled the charm under his fingers. Tried _desperately_ not to let a single tear fall, and failed. “Like your death didn’t break my heart.” Failed spectacularly.

“No, no, Felix, don’t cry,” Sylvain begged, twisting in the ropes. “Please, don’t cry when I can’t wipe your tears away, _Felix_ , I’m _sorry_. I never meant to hurt you, I didn’t want this; I didn’t want any of this.”

“What did you _want_ , Sylvain?” Felix hissed through his tears. “I’m still not really getting it, clearly. What does Edelgard’s Fódlan offer that you couldn’t have in Faerghus? You’re a noble; you could have had anything or anyone you wanted!”

“Not you,” Sylvain snapped back.

Felix sniffed, wiped his face with his palm. Confused—chastised, maybe—he muttered a simple question. “Explain.”

“I can’t have you. Not with our titles and Crests and needing to produce heirs. I hate… everything, really, about being a noble with a Crest; being treated like a studhorse by my parents, being treated as a gold pouch with legs by women. It sucks. But the one bright spot in my life was always you, Felix. And if Edelgard could have given me a world where titles and Crests and heirs didn’t matter, I was going to _take it_ , and find a way to live in that world with you.”

Felix stood, stunned for a moment. It was silent between the two of them again.

Sylvain sighed. “I don’t have any intelligence on the Imperial Army. Left before that part of the meeting. The only thing I’m certain of is the plan to garrison fresh troops at Fort Merceus, maybe even begin a slow march north to try and recapture Myrddin. If you head out now, the Kingdom Army could intercept them in Gronder Field and not risk losing the Bridge.”

 _Not you… always you, Felix… I was going to_ take it _…_

“So what happens now? Death? Can I choose the method of my execution? I’d like to be hanged if you—”

“Sylvain.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.” He reached back, took off the necklace he hadn’t removed since he was seven years old, and let it fall in Sylvain’s lap. He watched Sylvain’s face fall, his eyes tear up, and his lip quiver. Felix then drew a dagger from his belt and walked around behind Sylvain.

“Felix, please, I’m _sorry_!,” Sylvain cried. “Not like this. Not like this. I’m sorry. _Please_. Felix, don’t do this—”

“Sylvain!” Felix cut off his begging with a sharp crack of his name. Sylvain released one last whimper and then quieted. Felix leaned down, and drew the dagger through the ropes binding Sylvain’s wrists; then, he sheathed the dagger.

Sylvain’s hands came around and he began to gently rub at the reddening burns left on his wrists. He hadn’t stopped crying, but still hadn’t made another sound.

Felix took a knee in front of Sylvain, picked up the charm from his lap, and put it in Sylvain’s hands. He then lifted a hand to brush tears away from Sylvain’s cheek, cradled his face in his palm; and then, said, “I’m… willing to speak for you before the professor and the knights.”

“Felix…”

“Quiet,” he said, putting a finger to Sylvain’s lips. “I want you at my side and I will do what it takes to make that happen. _However_ ,” Felix glared, “I can’t forgive you yet. You betrayed Faerghus and so betrayed me. But, I understand and even… sympathize with… your motives.”

Sylvain perked up at that and a smile graced his lips again.

Felix looked aside, fighting a blush. _This man, fuck_. He motioned back to the charm in Sylvain’s hands and continued, “I’ll ask for this back someday.”

“I’ll be forgiven, then?” Sylvain asked, hopeful.

Felix nodded. “More than that,” he said. “That’ll be the day you can ask… for more. If you still want it, that is.”

“I’ll always want you,” Sylvain breathed. “Thank you, Felix. I hope that day comes soon.”

Felix took their hands and guided Sylvain to his feet. In the firelight, his hair looked ethereal—his eyes, his smile, radiant and beautiful. Felix let himself have a moment of indulgence before he would have to appear before the professor again; he stood up on his toes and pressed a kiss to Sylvain’s cheek, close to his mouth. He drank in the view of Sylvain, alive and in front of him again, and then led the way out of the Hall.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not claim to really understand Edelgard or her motives/methods, but I *have* tried. I've read so many different analyses about her and the Crimson Flower route and I still just... don't agree with her. Sorry to Edelgard stans.


End file.
